


what the heart desires

by scribblscrabbl



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durin Feels, Gen, M/M, Shenanigans, Thranduil does what he wants, UST, angst is highly probable, hobbit feels, just feels all around, kid!Fíli, kid!Kíli, kink meme fills, some silliness thrown in, tiny dwarves running amuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fills:</p><p>1. Bilbo facing down Azog from Gandalf's POV.<br/>2. Thorin survives BotFA but Fíli and Kíli do not. Dís finds out upon arriving at Erebor.<br/>3. Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli survive BotFA. The brothers go to Rivendell to attend the Council, and befriend Merry and Pippin. Shenanigans ensue.<br/>4. By some magic, Fíli and Kíli revert to their 10/15 year-old selves. The rest of the Company deals not so well.<br/>5. Thranduil interrogates Thorin à la Silva/Bond in Skyfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. courage to outlast the night

When Bilbo charges at the Pale Orc on his Warg, Gandalf can only watch with a quickening heart, teeth gritted against the weight of two wailing dwarves at the end of his staff. He thinks Thorin a fool for presuming Azog could be twice-defeated, at the hands of an ill-armed dwarf no less. Fury and fear war in his chest as he looks to the fallen leader and then to the hobbit sinking his miniature sword into an enemy twice his size with fierce determination, the sort fit for a hero. He stabs the Orc two more times for good measure, hands unwavering in the face of death, ugly and monstrous as it is. And Gandalf remembers his confession to the Lady of Lórien. 

_Perhaps it is because I am afraid, and he gives me courage._

He has never doubted his choice although he knows he followed through against his better judgment. It is now that he grieves, more sharply than ever, at the sight of the path he has selfishly laid out for Bilbo, strewn with horrors enough to haunt a lifetime.

He roars a warning, though it cannot be heard above the roaring flames, as Azog prepares to strike, smiling almost as if he regrets how easy the slaughter will be. Bilbo falters and then stands his ground, slicing the air and stumbling on hope, eyes wide with fear, partly, perhaps, at how brave he’s found himself to be. He remains close to Thorin, guarding his body as if it is his duty to bear, his King to die for. The thought tempers Gandalf’s grief and renews his faith in a quest that has only ever been borne by willing hearts. He judges the defiance in Bilbo’s stance, the strength of a conviction the hobbit never knew he had, and thinks that a willing heart may just be enough to see them through.


	2. our dearly departed

They are sealed into their tombs long before their mother comes for them.

After the battle is won their bodies are laid to rest upon the bare earth, greeting death side-by-side. Their faces are not cleansed of the blood of their foes. It paints a warrior’s tale for those who come to pay their final respects. For Thorin, it obscures the youth he cannot bear to behold.

He kneels beside them, neither eating nor sleeping, head weak and bones hollow. He had dealt vengeance like a hammer blow, felling the enemy on all sides until Orcrist ran with death. Now the fire is all but quenched and he has not the strength to curse or mourn the tragedies of his kin. 

He kneels, every hour Dís does not come.

On the third day he weeps. His companions, his brothers, come to stand by his side as if shielding his grief from the world’s watchful eyes. Some wail while some sigh, but all of them whisper the names of the departed in the language of their maker, hushed but no less fierce than their battle-cry. _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_ echoes down the mountainside. 

He grieves, every day Dís does not come.

Their tombs are cold and bright under the mountain. The Arkenstone is restored, a constant reminder of a price dearly paid. And on the throne of Erebor sits a lonely king, his loss weighing more than his gold.

When his sister comes at last, it is with raging heart and thunderous cries, murder on her lips. She strikes at the ground with her fists and when the world does not answer, she turns on Thorin.

“ _You killed my sons_.”

The full force of her fury descends upon him and he can only bow to it.

“Not a day passes that I do not wish I could trade my life for theirs.” Only in his dreams does Mahal bid the living to sleep and the dead to wake. 

She shudders against his chest and wrenches free of his arms. Her palms come to rest upon the stone that keeps her from her sons, denying her the right to kiss their cheeks and bathe their hurts with her grief. 

“They were together in the end. They were not alone.” He would have the thought console her as it consoled him. In the end a brother’s love bore them hence, and death was made more beautiful than wretched.

“I wish—”

He hears the words that do not fall, a memory of mountains far to the West, where songs were sung of the strength of Durin’s line.


	3. the trouble with hobbits

The second time Kíli lays eyes upon Rivendell he is grateful again for the respite it grants him, this time from the growing dark that creeps across the lands and makes him feel like he will never be warm again. It’s a chill that makes his bones ache, most sharply where old wounds were too deep to fully heal.

He expects the roaring waterfalls and the curious foods too green for his tastes. He and Fíli spend most of their first day reacquainting themselves with Rivendell’s treasures and oddities. What he does not expect is Bilbo Baggins, hair entirely grey and face lined with years, nearly unrecognizable until he smiles.

They waste no time settling into plush cushions and recounting their adventure of long ago, faded but never forgotten, still a little unbelieving that it held all the excitement and glory they had hoped it would, and none of the tragedy that some foretold.

“Thorin had gifted me a fine shirt of mithril. I passed it on to my nephew, Frodo, before I left the Shire.” Bilbo looks to the east with longing, as if he would’ve liked to go on one last adventure before the end. 

“Uncle would’ve wished you to see Erebor returned to the way it was. Halls full of song and cheer, cups overflowing with ale.”

They regale Bilbo with stories of their home, how the others of their company have changed and how they have remained the same, Dwalin rounder than before and Ori just as delicate. It’s not until the stars shine their brightest in the sky that they bid him good night, stifling yawns like children who’ve stayed up far past their bedtime.

Just as unexpected, perhaps, is the appearance of four more hobbits the following day.

“The word is one of them carries The One Ring,” Kíli says to his brother in hushed tones as they skirt around a solemn procession of Elves.

“Why are you whispering?” Fíli looks at him askance. “Afraid that Sauron can hear you all the way from Barad-dûr?”

Kíli has half a mind to trip his brother into the nearby shrubbery when he collides with a solid—warm—object with disproportionately large feet.

“Ow! My foot!” 

“Watch where you’re going, Pip! Sorry, he’s got a habit of knocking into things and over things, and generally making a mess of things to be honest.”

“I do not!”

Once Kíli gets his bearings, he finds two of the four aforementioned hobbits standing sheepishly before him, light brown curls reminding him of a younger Bilbo.

“Your friend isn’t to blame. I was not minding the path.”

“My brother is not as agile on his feet as he thinks. Fíli—”

“—and Kíli—”

“At your service.”

The hobbits stare wide-eyed at their formality before bowing hurriedly. 

“Merry.”

“And Pippin.”

“At _your_ service.”

Kíli stifles a laugh. He has no skill at guessing a hobbit’s age but imagines his new acquaintances are barely grown, appearing more fresh-faced and guileless than he and his brother when they had left home to seek their first adventure. 

The four fall into easy conversation as they wander aimlessly, speaking on all manner of things, including Bilbo’s homely hobbit hole, how the dwarves came to know the inside of it, and the distances they traveled from there. 

How they end up at Elrond’s armoury by the end of the conversation Kíli isn’t quite sure, except, evidently, Fíli promised to show the hobbits the art of throwing axes at moving targets and Kíli’s afraid to ask how exactly the demonstration will play out.

His very legitimate concerns fall to the wayside when they step inside and his eyes fall upon an immaculate collection of the most magnificent bows he has ever seen. Under any other circumstance he would argue that Dwarven craftsmanship is unparalleled in all of Middle Earth, but there is a beauty in the Elvish weapons that steals his breath and halts his heart.

“Is he all right?” He barely acknowledges Pippin’s question as he steps forward and runs a single finger down one wooden curve.

“You will never see Kíli more love struck than he is with a well-made bow. Uncle blames it on the lack of dwarf women.”

“Is he any good? I mean, with bows.”

A moment later Kíli’s teaching Pippin archery while shooting his brother venomous glares, telling him in no uncertain terms that if any of them gets an arrow to the backside then it’ll be on _his_ head.

“You look ridiculous. It’s much too big for you.” Merry has his arms crossed, a little envious perhaps that Pippin took the first turn.

“It’ll be big for you, too. I’m taller than you.” Pippin sticks out his tongue in concentration as Kíli adjusts his stance and his grip.

“We’re the same height!”

“I was a wee lad when I picked up my first bow. Gave myself a black eye when I tried shooting it.”

“And then the little wretch lied and said it was my doing.” Fíli does a poor job of disguising his fondness, lips twitching.

“Mother believed me because I was cuter.”

“She knew she’d never hear the end of it otherwise.”

“Are the two of you always like this?” Merry looks from one brother to the other with raised brows. 

Meanwhile Pippin gets distracted and forgets he’s drawn his bow, sending the nocked arrow flying with impressive speed into a row of shields. The first teeters precariously and then topples before Kíli can rescue it, setting off the rest and making such a racket that he expects Elves to storm the armoury thinking fell deeds are afoot. 

“Oops.” Pippin drops his bow and backs away slowly, with a calm that suggests he’s wreaked this sort of havoc before, on multiple occasions in fact.

“Run! Run! Run!” Merry shoves at his friend and makes for the door in a flurry of limbs. 

Kíli looks at Fíli, considering for moment their responsibilities as mature dwarves and as delegates of the King under the Mountain.

“I reckon we run for it.”

“No one ever has to know.”

And as they bolt from the scene of the crime, Kíli wonders about the repercussions of befriending two pint-sized troublemakers, and smiles at how familiar their mischief feels.


	4. a series of unfortunate events

Ten days after the company sets out from the Shire, the quest goes awry. And not in the usual way that involves getting lost or waylaid by trolls. This time, they’ve woken up to The Unfortunate Discovery that Fíli and Kíli have become younger, and smaller. Much younger, and much smaller. 

“Gandalf.” Thorin keeps his voice impressively measured as his nephews run in circles around him and trigger flashbacks that make him feel faint of heart. “What is the meaning of this.”

The wizard frowns, expressing the mild sort of concern one might feel upon having invited too many guests to a party or misplacing a pair of glasses. The rest of the company wears varying expressions, ranging from petrified (Bofur) to curious (Ori) to flustered (Bilbo).

“This is baffling indeed. I do not have the smallest inkling of the cause.” Then, after having displayed a dearth of magical prowess, Gandalf smiles, _fondly_ , when Kíli proceeds to hang off his uncle’s arm and squeal with delight.

“This makes our journey a bit more difficult.” Balin sighs deeply, as if he might as well dig his own grave; he’s already lived a decently long life. Fíli tugs at his surcoat, demanding to be fed.

Thorin thinks that describing his nephews as difficult is as about as generous as calling dragons cuddly. He glances at Dwalin, who seems to be entertaining similarly dark thoughts as his eyes dart from one brother to the other.

“We will make haste to Rivendell.” Gandalf looks pointedly at Thorin. “The Elves may know a cure.”

Thorin opens his mouth to express his deep aversion to the idea, until Kíli starts screaming at the top of his lungs, face slowly turning purple with exertion.

“Unless you find a cure first.”

So, naturally, Gandalf disappears sometime around midday without a word. They can’t pinpoint the moment exactly as they’re too busy chasing the little rascals down a ravine that ensnares a few victims who will remain unnamed. 

“He made his escape while he could,” Nori mutters, “wise wizard indeed.”

They’ve traveled at a slow pace since The Unfortunate Discovery but stop for luncheon when Kíli attempts to climb one of the ponies in search for food and nearly gets trampled under the startled animal. Thorin’s heart is still thundering in his chest when Kíli and Fíli settle down to chomp happily on bread and cheese.

“Where are we going, Uncle Thorin? We’ve been walking an awfully long time.”

“Mother says never speak with your mouth full,” Kíli scolds his brother with a little frown.

“We’re going home,” Thorin answers, softening at the sight of the pair sitting contently, side-by-side on the rock.

“I hope we get there soon. You’re not very good at finding your way in the dark, Uncle Thorin.” 

He hears a few sniggers to his left and grits his teeth, determined to enjoy this rare moment of peace.

“We will journey for quite some time. But fear not, your patience will be rewarded.” Both brothers perk up at that while Thorin tries not to dwell on the thought that their task will be nigh impossible with two dwarflings in tow. He gave Dís his word that he would keep a watchful eye on her sons, but with this turn of events he would need four eyes and a miracle.

“They certainly are well-behaved when they’ve got their mouths full, aren’t they?” Bilbo has clearly found the situation to be more and more humorous and Thorin turns to glower at him, before an idea takes root.

By the time they set off again, there’s a sleeping Kíli on Bilbo’s back in place of a pack. 

“Who knew tiny dwarves could be so heavy,” he mutters, much to Thorin’s amusement. 

Fíli’s strapped in tightly on top of one of the ponies with Óin on one side and Glóin on the other.

“Why can’t Kíli ride with me?” he demands loudly, his complaints punctuated every so often with, “are we there yet, Uncle Thorin? Are we there yet?”

Ori answers gamely until even he falls into quiet despair and the company trudges on.

Everything comes to a head when Kíli awakens and Bilbo, who, it turns out, needs to brush up on his parenting skills, slips Kíli a few sugar cubes.

“You fed him _what_?” Kíli darts in and out of the bushes, quicker than a rhosgobel rabbit, as Dwalin tries to catch him, looking as if he’d rather be poking a dragon in the belly. Thorin sends a quick prayer to Mahal that Bilbo Baggins is a better burglar than he is a dwarf-sitter.

“Um. Sugar cubes? I’ve been carrying them in my pocket for the ponies.” He shows off a translucent square pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you know,” Thorin says slowly, every word causing him pain, “what sugar does to a young dwarf?” Behind him Dwalin tackles Kíli to the ground, triumphant roar soon turning aggravated when Kíli yanks on his beard.

“How was I supposed to know!” Bilbo waves his arms around. “If you wanted me informed, you should have put it in my contract! _In the event that a dwarf reverts to his childhood self, do not feed him sugar._ ”

Fíli’s now started to clamour for someone to let him down from his horse and Thorin thinks he has no choice but to resort to his Grown-Up voice. He mastered it long ago when the lads were just beginning their mischief, to spare his sister from being the one to deny them their little hearts’ desires.

“ _Kíli. Fíli._ ”

Unexpectedly, it’s then that he feels what has always defined home for him, a thing he had let fall into forgetfulness somewhere between one mountain range and another.


	5. the night is dark and full of terrors

The hour is late when Thranduil appears. Thorin can neither see the sky nor hear the forest but he senses the depth of the night nonetheless, its sinister shades saturating the earth.

The guards set two chairs upon the ground before dragging him upright, their task made difficult by his refusal to cooperate, his body a leaden weight. Cold, efficient hands at last bind him to his seat, pulling his shoulders taut. He feels the wound below his collarbone reopen and fresh blood well and trickle.

"You will not freely give me the answers I seek." Thranduil sits opposite Thorin, posture unyielding as though he still commands attention from the height of his throne, spine curved like an Elven blade. “Then I will change the terms on which I ask my questions.”

Thorin remains silent, sensing a dangerous game afoot, muscles coiled though he is in no position to fight. Thranduil’s smile is bright as steel and sharper still.

“Or perhaps I need only to find the right incentive.” He leans towards Thorin, limbs easing into indolence as his hair spills past his shoulders, rivulets of gold no dwarf would dare covet.

Thorin gives a slight start when Thranduil reaches out to loosen the ties on his tunic, fingers skirting teasingly across his collarbone and dipping into the hollow of his throat, tracing indulgent, purposeful patterns. He should recoil in revulsion, lash out, draw from Thranduil the blood owed to him a hundred times over. Yet he moves not an inch because he cannot deny that he simply _wants_. He may have a will more hardened than most and enough fury to raze a kingdom, but he is immune to neither lust nor beauty. And it is such beauty that sits before him, unearthing without mercy his basest and darkest desires.

Thranduil’s fingers are cool but his breath blows hot across Thorin’s jaw.

“I dare say Thorin Oakenshield’s infamous wit has deserted him.” His voice is wicked and low, eyes half-lidded, and Thorin struggles to reconcile the sight with the notions he set in stone long ago, heart thundering within his chest. “The King under the Mountain at my mercy. Where ever shall I begin?”

Thranduil drops his hand to run both palms along Thorin’s thighs, thumbs digging into muscle, and Thorin traps a moan in his throat as he pulls ineffectually at his bonds, rebelling still against the sentiment carrying a heat more vicious than dragonfire. Thranduil tilts his head in mock consideration.

“I know.” His hands resume their upward journey, tongue wetting his lips as if already tasting the sweetness of Thorin’s downfall. “Let us play a game.


End file.
